The Darkness Surrounds Me
by Th3 L4Dy
Summary: A short account of the months following the final battle. A bit Dark.


I wake. The floor I'm lying on is dirty, and the room smells of death. My death. I hear the rats scurrying about, and feel deserted. I can hazily remember the snake attack me. I can still feel my life-force draining out of me. I shiver, not because it is cold, but because it's hard. It's hard to wrap my mind around what has happened. Am I a ghost? I carefully look down my body at my hand. I try to twitch my fingers. The pain tells me I am no ghost. I live still.

Oh how cruel a world this is. Why am I still alive? I should have died. I know I should have. Has someone come back for me? Turning my head ever so slightly, I find the horrid shack empty. If someone has, where are they now? And who thought it necessary to safe me? Who could be so cruel as to condemn me to such a life any longer?

I fleetingly wonder if I could just lie here until death once more claims me. I cannot, but it was nice to think about. I cannot kill myself, I never could. Maybe I am in some ways a coward, or maybe this life has taken all of me out of this empty shell, but I merely have a wish to die. It is the guilt I still feel, the responsibilities weighing so heavily on my heart, which keep me from it.

I drag my aching body across the floor to where I know the door to be. I am sure the accumulated layers of dust cling to my once pristine robes. I do not care, I am too far down this empty black hole to care about anything. I have never felt this alone. There is nothing worse in the world than waking up after an attack which should have been fatal, knowing there is no one who even cared to get your body. They were going to let me rot. Literally.

Who won? Did I fail? No, I can't have. There is no way they lost. Not with what I gave the boy. Not even he could've screwed it up now. I hope to Merlin I am right. That I do not put too much stock in him. That I do not believe in him too much. Even I can hope the child has potential. Through his eyes, his mother shines, and I hope the boy has enough of her talents to last him through this fight. Is the war still raging? I really do not wish to find out. But I need other things more.

I reach the door and try to stand, hoisting myself up on the doorpost. My shaking legs have trouble to support me, but I manage. I stand there for several moments just to catch my breath. Even getting up into a standing position tires me. My nose wrinkles in disgust at the foul smell that reaches my nostrils, but then I realize it is me.

Ah, so I have actually died. So someone must've come to safe me, and found me dead. Who was it? And what did they do to bring me back? Did they leave me because they thought it hadn't worked? Or merely to spite me? But if that was the case, why not let me be dead?

I do not have my wand, and though I do not usually need it, I feel my body is too drained to attempt wandless magic. I feel exposed and vulnerable, even inside of this wooden closet. Coffin, if you will. I am not too proud to admit that I am afraid. What will I find when I go outside? Will I be welcomed or arrested? Or killed again? Though the latter doesn't really worry me, it does mean I have failed. If someone tries to kill me, it is probably the dark. The light would merely have me arrested.

The pain wrecks through me, both my body and my soul. Hugging the doorpost, I cry. I cry like I have never cried before. I should've died. Please let me die again.

I can feel my knees quiver under my weight, fighting to support me. I grip the doorpost a little harder. I know that, were I to give in now and sink back to the floor, I would never get up again. The last ounce of strength left in me is burning up fast, and I have to make it out. Now that I am here, I need to know if I have succeeded. If he succeeded. If I go outside only to find that he hasn't, I will gladly die for my crimes, but if I find him victorious, I would die happy. I pray to any deity who will listen, please give me the strength to make it outside.

As I stagger out towards the staircase and down, I can feel my mind slipping further and further away from sense. The dark hole I have found myself in has gripped my ankles and is dragging me down. I fight it, but I know it is a losing battle. I only hope to fight it off until I know for sure.

Down the stairs I let myself drop onto all fours, dragging myself towards the tunnel leading to the Whomping Willow. Please let me make it. I have to make it.

The darkness around me doesn't help. It reminds me of the darkness in my soul, in my heart. But it also calms me down. I have one way to go, and that is forward.

As I start ascending, the slope becoming more and more difficult to master in my weakened state, the darkness doesn't let up. I hang on to enough of common sense to realize it is night. The chance something is blocking the exit is incredibly slim, if not impossible. Night. I hear nothing but the sounds I make myself, my breathing, my heartbeat, my dragging myself forward.

I emerge into the dead of night. The scent of the recently dead fills my nostrils, and my head. It is a scent which I fear, a scent I wish to never smell again. I glance around, and though my vision is hazy and the night is dark, I can spot the outlines of the corpses which litter the ground. I wish I didn't have to pass them, afraid of whom I might find, but I know I have no choice. As long as I do not find the boy, there is still a chance, still a spark of hope.

From my vantage-point under the tree, which is swinging it's branches angrily, but doesn't seem to know I'm here yet, I can see the state of the castle. It breaks my heart to see the once formidable castle in such a state, and I can feel the tears well up inside me when I notice the astronomy tower is no more. The most awful of all my deeds has no more corporeal memory. Only in my head, and hopefully that of Lily's boy, it lives on. It had given me closure when I was up there, but now, I am only overjoyed it's gone.

I spot a stick close enough to reach it, and have the willow freeze. I am going to need some time to make my way out of its reach. Dragging myself over the blood-soaked grounds of my home, I pass body after body. Each one both pains me and makes me just a bit more hopeful. Though the men and woman lying dead around me were once what some would consider my friends, I find only Death Eaters. It is a good sign. I am not naïve enough to believe only the dark has lost their men, but it's not bad that the bodies of the light, my true side, have been cleared. That means there are enough still alive to clear them. Either that, or I'll find their heads on stakes near the doors. From this distance, it is hard to see anything.

My hand grabs something cold, and I know the feel of it instantly. It's a mask. Drawing it close to my face, I swear I can feel my heart breaking. I know I should hate him, I know he was one of the worst, one of the most cruel, he was also the one with the most heart. He was the one who, if he had had the same chance as I, would've taken my place in a heartbeat. He hated the man he served under more than I did. He was the one who loved me. As I loved him. Lucius. I search around a little, though my body doesn't permit me too much. He is not there. I can only hope he has merely lost his mask somewhere in the fight.

Pushing the thoughts of my best friend, my brother, out of my head, I have to go on. I can feel my body giving up, and my mind wrapping itself inside a blissful cocoon off unconsciousness. But not yet. I first have to know.

Moving closer towards the heavy oak doors to the entrance hall, I see people milling about behind the huge windows of the great hall. I cannot make out anyone I know and care for, but at least I'll have my answer soon. I only have to go in.

At the bottom of the steps leading to the doors, there's another pile of bodies. My heart sinks as I see the dark unruly curls, though somewhere in my mind I know it's not her. As I come close enough, I can see the curls are black. Bella is no more. The biggest part of me rejoices, doing summersaults of joy in my head, making me a little dizzy, but a small treacherous part of me feels I am going to miss her. Back before Azkaban she had been a good companion, and even though she had gone insane in the last years, you never wish someone you have shared your bed with dead. Not if it had been a good union. I can only muse about whether she had been still alive if she had chosen me instead of Lestrange. Or if I would've been dead now if she had. I touch her face softly, closing her unseeing eyes.

"Rest, my dear" I croak out.

I don't like the way my voice sounds, thick with more unshed tears. But I have no time to ponder it, I have to move. I am so close now, I cannot give up. I feel sick as I crawl up and over the pile of bodies, thinking they could've found a better place to dump them. It seems disrespectful, even if it's the enemy. But maybe it's just me, merely because I have known and worked side by side with these people that it seems so heartless. Now that they're dead, I can see the only crime they have ever committed was choosing the wrong side. Every one under the man's command had gone insane, some gradually or even just momentarily, and others, like Bellatrix, had never recovered. Though I knew I was being a little shortsighted, it didn't matter what I thought. They were dead.

I make it up the steps, trying to get back on my feet but failing miserably. I am much too weak to manage. With the very last bit of strength, all of my bodyweight and an awful lot of willpower, I push open one of the doors.

The light floods out, blinding me momentarily as I let myself fall into the entrance hall. When my vision clears, my heart swells to an unimaginable size. I see her, my longtime friend, without who's guidance I had been lost this past year, looking shaken and injured, but alive. I register her turning my way, but not until I feel her arms around my shoulders and my head in her lap, I know that she has come to me. I open my eyes long enough to stare into her aged ones.

"Minerva" I gasp. Even speaking hurts. "The boy?"

I cannot speak more. She knows what I mean. Her face is pale, a ghostly white from her injuries, and I know sitting on the floor holding me while I draw my last breaths is painful to her. She nods at me.

"He made it. We won."

That is all I need to know. I smile up for a moment before closing my eyes, and I let the darkness claim me.

* * *

I am bathing in a golden light. Am I finally dead? Did I go to Heaven? Of course I didn't. But if I went to hell, where is the golden light coming from? And where is Albus? He must be dying to have another chance to harass me. Haha, dying. He's already dead. I feel giddy. I am so unaccustomed the feeling that it shocks me.

Opening one eye, the golden light blinds me. I close it again. Bugger that. In the distance I hear voices. Ah, my hell-mates. Come to me, hell-mates. I am here. Though their conversation seems weird for demons or lost souls. I listen carefully, but only catch snippets.

"How did he …. regained conscious…. he recover….."

A second voice joins in, a little more high pitched than the last.

"I don't know who…. was a great help…. without….. not have made it…"

As the voices draw nearer, somewhere my weirdly functioning brain makes a connection.

"He was very lucky." I hear Poppy say.

Lucky indeed. I can't believe I'm still alive. Why can't these people just let me die in peace?

As I hear the privacy curtain open, I let myself slip back into blissful nothingness.

* * *

The sound of sobbing wakes me, and I feel a damp hand on mine. The crying is soft, almost inaudible, but to me, in this dark pool of unconsciousness, it sounded louder than an explosion. It was the only sound. Now I was sure I was delirious. It was too close to think it was at another's bed, but I couldn't think of a soul who would cry over me. Willing the feel of soft female tears out of my mind, I go back to sleep.

The hand is still on mine. Or maybe it's another. I am not sure, nor do I care. I am more interested in the fact there seems to be someone arguing not too far off.

"I don't care what you think, you inconsiderate bastard. You will leave him to recover."

I recognize the voice as Minerva's. I am glad to hear her scream at someone. It means she's feeling well.

"We must detain any death eater who remains living, and he is a death eater. I have clear orders from the ministry."

If I had the energy, I would have cringed for him. From my bed, I am sure I am lying on some semblance of a cot, I can almost feel her anger. She would be just about to explode, judging by the venom in her voice.

"The ministry be damned! I don't give a flying fuck whether or not you have orders! You can just send Kingsley over here to talk to me himself if he wants him, but I assure you, no lowlife ministry drone will take him! Over my dead body! He is under my care until I decide otherwise, and not you! Now leave."

With a smile on my face I feel the world fade away once more, but as I lose consciousness, this time, I hear a gasp, feel the hand tighten on me, and I swear I heard a whisper. "Professor?"

This time, I don't feel a hand on mine. But I hear a silent conversation very near me.

"I don't care what you say Harry, I'm not leaving him."

Odd, very odd. I swear it's miss Granger who is standing but my bed.

"But the funeral will be in an hour. We have to go, you know that."

Missing a funeral? Which one? I must admit I'm curious. I don't even know who died yet.

"I know, Harry. Don't you think I know that? But we left him, and I'll be damned if we do it again."

Ah, it's guilt. It explains why they would be arguing at my bedside, and not someone else's.

"Really? You would miss a funeral, a friend's funeral, for someone who might never wake up? Look, I feel just as bad about it as you do, alright? But I can't just sit here anymore. I did what I could in the shack, and sat with him for the better part of an hour. How did I know that he would wake up while I was going to get someone to help me take him to the castle? There was no pulse, Hermione. He was dead."

I opened my eyes somewhere during his little speech, and now he is pointing at my nose. The girl next to him shrieks as she sees me awake, and hurries to my side, holding a glass of water. I can only imagine where she got it from. I gratefully take a sip of water and look her in the eyes.

"What are you doing here?" I manage. Gods, it sounds as though I haven't spoken in years.

"We thought you were dead sir, we really did. If we had known.." She starts, but I hold up my hand, which I now notice is bandaged, to silence her. I turn my head towards the black-haired boy.

"Who's funeral?"

His eyes fill with tears. It's a big one, apparently.

"Fred Weasley" he says.

Bugger, I liked those twins. But if it's only one, the other still lives. I am certain they would've been buried together if he didn't. It must be hell on the live one.

Next to me, the girl starts sniffling. I look back at her.

"Leave" I say.

She starts to protest, but I point a feeble finger at the door.

"Now"

They do exactly as I ask. This is probably the only time they actually listen to me.

It is not long before sleep claims me.

* * *

"Severus"

Go away, I'm sleeping. I feel a soft poke between my ribs. I hate it when someone does that.

"Severus, wake up"

No, no, no. First I am not allowed to die, and now I can't even sleep? Will I ever find rest? I open one eye groggily, and a face comes into view, extraordinarily close. I jerk back a little, and regret it instantly. It hurts. Like hell.

"What?" I bite out. Oh, my voice sounds a little more like the old me. I appreciate that.

Minerva moves a little further away from me and looks me over. She smiles.

"You look a lot better, Severus, I am glad."

Honestly? I hope she didn't wake me up for that. I merely quirk an eyebrow. Even that hurts.

"Fine, fine, sorry. I merely wanted to tell you that you have been officially exonerated. You are now a war-hero." She beams at me.

WHAT? I jerkily sit up, ignoring the insistent stabs of blinding pain everywhere in my body. Surprisingly, my neck and shoulder barely hurt.

"I am a what?" I ask.

She looks a little offended. Maybe I could've said it a little nicer. I don't care.

"A war-hero. You will be awarded an order of Merlin first class for your sacrifices made in the war." She says huffily while she crosses her arms.

In protest, I turn around and fall back asleep.

* * *

I am roughly pulled from oblivion. Minerva is still looming over me, this time with her wand drawn. The witch actually cast a spell on me? Bloody hell, Let me sleep.

"Do not try that trick again, Severus. I will keep you awake if I have to. We were in a conversation."

I sit back up a little, and let the anger which is raising up inside me smother the pain.

"Yes, Minerva, I believe you were telling me how Potter shared all of my private memories with a courtroom, weren't you?"

I love the fact that my voice is regaining its familiar qualities. It gives me the ability to sneer while incapacitated in a hospital bed.

"I said no such thing! And Harry merely testified, he didn't show them anything. You need to trust us a little. You're still alive aren't you?"

This enrages me, I am sure I'm about to start breathing fire any moment now.

"AND AM I SUPPOSED TO BE HAPPY ABOUT THAT?" I roar. I don't care about the pain, I don't care that my voice falters and scratches every other word. I see Minerva take a step back. That means it's worth it.

"I WAKE UP IN A WOODEN SHACK, ALIVE. I KNOW I SHOULD'VE DIED AND I WAS WELCOMING IT. DONNOT STAND THERE TELLING ME I SHOULD BE HAPPY TO BE HERE, MINERVA."

I stop shouting, lowering my voice to a dangerous whisper while I regard her through narrowed eyes.

"I have nothing to live for, woman. And this order of Merlin will not change that."

She looks absolutely scandalized. But taken down a notch or two.

"But Severus, I…"

"What is going on here?" Poppy comes zooming back into my curtained cubicle, and I take the time to fall back asleep. This yelling business really tires a man out.

* * *

Whispers surround me in waking. Once again, my hand is grasped tightly in another.

"I don't think we should bring it up, Harry." I hear on my left. "Minerva said he wasn't too happy about it, and he has been out since she told him. So I think we should just keep quiet for a while."

"I understand, Hermione, but you have to realize that what I did was the only thing I could do. I want to thank him, but there is just no way big enough to show my gratitude."

I almost want to sigh. Seven years, seven years have these two hated me, despised me and mistrusted me. And now that they have learned my motives, they are here because… because what? Because they feel guilty? Because they pity me? I do not wish to be pitied. I wish to be left alone. No one who has lived around me knows who I am. Not the Potter boy, nor the Granger girl. Not Minerva, who had so readily believed me dark after last year, nor Lucius, who had never known who I really worked for. The only person who ever really knew me is long gone, murdered by my father many years before. No one has the right to sit by my bed and hold my hand as though they love me. They don't. Most don't even like me.

I jerk my hand out of the girl's grasp and open my eyes.

"I thought I told you two to leave?"

Great, my voice is back to raspy.

They both look at me with wide eyes, both poised as if to speak, but neither produces the necessary sounds. For good measure, I glare at them both before locking my gaze into Potter's.

"Was I not perfectly clear the last time?" I ask him. He looks down at his feet, his fingers fumbling with the edge of one of my sheets. I really wish the daft brat wouldn't do that. I can feel it slipping ever so slightly on the other side, and I am not inclined to see what is underneath the sheets.

"We were worried, sir." He says.

Ha! Worried? About me? No you weren't.

"Stop lying to me, Potter." On my other side I can hear the girl starting to sniffle again. Oh what now?

"Miss Granger, will you kindly stop your incessant crying? It will do nothing to improve my mood, I assure you. Now, will one of you tell me why you both insist on sitting by my bedside, or will I have to call Minerva to have you both removed indefinitely from my side?"

I could not be clearer than that, could I? I could feel something wet hit my left hand, and I would've bet all my galleons, assuming I still had any, that the daft bint hadn't stopped crying and was now on the verge of bawling her eyes out. Great, just great. But I have to hand it to her, she didn't make a sound.

Potter lets himself fall into the chair behind him with a heavy sigh, and in the moment, his green eyes shining up at me, he looks years older. He looks like a man. Though I have probably seen a lot worse, I do not wish to know what he has seen and lived through to become this mature that fast. I just don't want to know. Every hardship he has lived through means another failure on my part to protect him.

"After I viewed your memories, I went out to die."

He merely looks at me, and I nod. I know what he tries to tell me. After all, I was the one to, albeit indirectly, tell him. The boy nods back.

"If you want to, you have my memories to view. Long story short, I killed him." He even punctuated it with a shrug.

"I heard afterwards that Hermione had gone back while I was gone, to see if she could save you. She was unsuccessful. She closed the wound on your neck, but she was convinced you had bled out."

That was punctuated by a sob to my left. I barely contained the urge to roll my eyes. I believe I was the one to die? Not her.

"So I went back with the only thing I could think of. Dumbledore once gave me a vial of Phoenix tears. Though if you were really dead already, it should not have worked. And I was convinced it hadn't. I sat with you for almost an hour, checking your pulse and breathing and whatever I could think of, I did. But you didn't respond. You were dead, I am sure of it. No pulse, no breath. Because I didn't want to levitate you, I went back to the castle to find someone who could help me carry you. You must've woken up when I was still in the building."

I sighed, none of that explained to me why they were here, and I could already feel my eyes droop.

"So you feel guilty?" I venture.

"No sir, not guilt." Her voice is choked with tears, and it is filled with enough sorrow to cut through skin. Though it doesn't affect me one bit. Those tears are not for me, they are for her.

"It's gratitude, I think. You did so much for us, and … " She sobs some more.

"I'm sorry about Hermione, sir. She has been doing that for almost a week now. She is convinced it will be out of her system soon enough, though. Something about nerves?"

I am getting thoroughly confused now. I look from the crying young woman on my left to the cold and collected young man on my right. What the hell is going on? The only thing I learned from this is that Granger is highly emotional, understandable, but annoying, and that I had died and I am not dead anymore. But I still don't have a good answer to my question. Why are they here? I'm still going with guilt. By the sound of it, that's what it is.

"Potter?" I ask him. "Did you show my memories to anyone?"

"No sir." He shakes his head. "I did not. I have them placed in a vial in my vault at Gringotts. No one can get to them but me."

I nod. That was a good thing to do.

Wait, Gringotts? "How long have I been out?"

"Since Minerva told you about the order of Merlin, it's been a week. Since the final battle? About a month."

"About the order of Merlin…"

"Don't yell at me too sir. You have exerted yourself enough in the last ten minutes. Poppy will have my head if I scream you into a week-long coma like Minerva did. They have been fighting all week about your condition." The boy chuckles.

"I have managed to get the ceremony were we get our orders of Merlin pushed up to next week, so all you have to do is stay in bed until then. Though Kingsley might come to give it to you himself, he's minister now, just because he's Kingsley. I almost envy you, if I had been confined to a bed like you, they would have brought the ceremony to me."

Somewhere during his laugh, I fall back asleep.

* * *

The knock at my door sounds like it had so many times before. I do not want to open it. I never want to. But I always do. It's been a while since the final battle, but I have no idea exactly how long. I know I have mildly recovered. Meaning I am home and am only pestered by Poppy once a week for my check-up, and I can wallow in peace. Or, I had hoped.

The darkness in my mind and my heart have not lifted, and I have lost my ability to find pleasure in anything. I cannot find my peace of mind in my books anymore, and my lab has accumulated a large layer of dust. So has everything else around me. Both my house and myself have been neglected, and I can't really bring myself to care.

The nightmares are frequent, but I can barely drag myself out of bed to take a dreamless-sleep potion. I have flashes during the day of a fanged mouth closing in on me, of the dead eyes of former lovers and friends staring back at me.

Never, in all my life as a spy, has it ever been this bad. It seems ironic that now, when Riddle is dead and the war is over, that my life has come to haunt me.

I spend my nights awake, staring out of my window, looking over the fields behind my house. I can almost see them walking towards me through the mist, Bella and Narcissa, and sometimes, I have the feeling they will walk through my door like they did that night. It had been the night it had all gone downhill.

I wish I had the possibility to go back and change it. Change my entire life. Go back far enough to stop myself ever taking the mark. To stop myself ever falling for the small redheaded girl who lived a block away from me.

I regret my life. Every decision I made, every step I took, every order I followed. I want to sit on my windowsill, staring out into the night, where I can just make out the outlines of her old house. I want to meet my end here, waste away into nothingness while seeing the reason for the road I have walked right outside the glass.

I do not eat when I am not forced to, I do not see the point. I cannot remember the last time I have taken a shower, or combed my hair. I can't be bothered. The pain inside of me has grown, and my heart is overflowing with darkness. It takes an overwhelming amount of strength to merely lift my hand.

The walk to the door is tiring, and once I have opened it to her disgustingly cheerful face, I retreat back to my window and settle myself in my own little nest of filth.

I try to tune out the sounds of her bustling around my home, going into the kitchen to make herself some tea, laying out the books she reads to my deaf ears, setting up the chessboard which I always refuse to play. I don't have a clue why she still comes to me, but I let her.

She is always cheerful, and I often wonder how she does it. The few times she takes Potter with her to meet me, I stare into his eyes in understanding. His equally dead eyes stare back at me.

Every time I look into the dead green eyes, I see my failure and am reminded once more I should be dead. I am thankful for the days when she comes alone. She is not my obligation, she never has been. She brings back no memories, no nightmares ensue from our meetings. Though her cheerfulness is nauseating, I rather see her than anyone else.

"Severus?"

She probably wants me to eat, but I feel no hunger. On my worst days, she used to feed me. She has this overwhelming urge to keep me alive, to keep me imprisoned in my suffering. Though I might not have the courage to take my own life, I have no qualms with starving myself. I continue to stare out of the window, barely acknowledging her presence.

The firm grip on my shoulders turns me from the view, and she pulls a chair up in front of me. She meets my eyes with her own, catching my cheek in her hand.

"Please eat something, Severus. You know you break my heart when you do this."

I merely shrug and try to pull my head away from her hand, but not eating has severely weakened me. I would never have thought this feeble woman would be able to overpower me, but she does. The look in her eyes tells me I have no choice. With a heavy sigh I grab a piece of bread and try to chew it down. My stomach fights me every step of the way, but I manage. She smiles at me.

* * *

Noon finds us sitting on the couch, and while she is trying to engage me in a conversation I don't want to be in, I once again marvel over the world outside. She chatters on about new children being born and marriages taking place. How the world is still spinning amazes me. When the world around you caves in, it is hard to imagine others have no such problems.

"Are you listening to me?"

I snort, of course I'm not. But fine, I'll humor her. I tilt my head slightly and raise an eyebrow. What?

"I saw Lucius Malfoy today."

Now, she has my attention. My head snaps back up and I drop the eyebrow. She smiles at me, she knows she has me.

"He asked about you, you know. He came to me, me of all people, to ask about you. He must love you a lot, if he chooses to come to me over Minerva. She knows how you are doing, mostly. I tell her when I've come to visit you."

I feel my attention wandering, and she notices. Once again,, she grabs my face in her hands and makes me look at her.

"He's doing quite well, actually. He wishes you would go see him. They have moved out of the manor, you wouldn't have to go far."

I wrench my face out of her grip and stagger back towards my window. I do not leave my home, and she knows it. I will not go out there. Even if I don't care about how I look, or even smell, within the confined space of my home, I still have a semblance of pride. I cannot let my former best friend see me the way I am today. And I would rather stay inside and rot than go out there and be mocked by my former peers.

I feel her hand on my shoulder, but I ignore it.

"I know you don't want to, but it might do you some good to see them. I could go with you." She offers.

"We could get you cleaned up. No one would have to know."

But they would. I have stopped brushing my hair mostly because of the gaunt face staring back at me in the mirror. When I look into my own eyes, I see nothing staring back at me. Nothing which I used to be, nothing which used to drive me. There is nothing of worth left in my body, and I am pretty sure my soul has withered. I don't look at her.

She sighs and I hear the sound of a chair scraping on the floor. She sits down next to me and puts her arms around me, slowly, as if she might spook me if she moves to fast. I don't.

I let her do whatever she wishes, mostly because she is the only person who cares. She is the only person who still comes to me, who still wishes to be in my presence.

Though I am sure it is the guilt she feels which motivates her to come to me, I cannot bring myself to kick her out. I do not feel anything towards her, but I know that if she doesn't come, I would be dead within a week. On my worst days, I wish for her to leave, but on my far more rare, better days, I almost appreciate her presence. I live only for those days. The days that the words she speaks reach me, the nights that I actually sleep. The days that the nightmares pass by my window because she is lying next to me.

I live for the days when she reaches me and touches my heart. Today, as she sits with me in my world, instead of trying to pull me back into hers, is one of those days.

* * *

This morning, I hear her coming. She is stalking up the street, stomping on the street as though it has offended her. Before she can knock I open the door, and she freezes, staring into my eyes. I nod and turn when I see the tears in her eyes. I don't want to see them. I am merely moving around in the room, it is no great accomplishment.

She sniffs, but I can hear her trying to push the tears back down. I limp towards my window, the imaginary pain in my uninjured leg is killing me. I cannot wrap my mind around the fact that even though I know it's not real, it can still hurt me so.

I have the overwhelming urge to make her proud of me, to make her feel I am making headway, even though, in my head, I'm not. For the first time since she has come to me, I remain standing. I don't sit down.

Why am I so intend to prove myself to her? Why now, after all of this time, do I wish to show her there is still a little of my old self inside of me, even if it is locked away so far down that I don't even feel it's presence most days? I have no idea, and I am not inclined to find out. I only know I do. It gives me a purpose, a purpose to take the food she offers me, to try and stay alive.

I hear a stifled sob close behind me, and watch my stomach as her arms enclose my waist in a smothering embrace.

Why do I not push her away? Another mystery. I don't want to, but there is no clear reason why. I see my hand raise of its own accord, and hold her hand in mine.

I feel her sob against my back, trying not to make a sound because she know it irks me. We stand there for what feels like hours, and I feel I'm having another good day.

* * *

I'm having a bad day. I cannot stir myself from my spot in the window, and even her knocking on the door doesn't lift my spirits. Last night had been filled with horrors, one nightmare after the other, every hour I woke in cold sweat, another pair of dead eyes engraved in my memory. Though I now regularly go to bed and try to sleep, I have to fight of the bad nights.

I hear the keys in the lock. I knew she has had one for a very long time, but I never gave it to her. After the first bad day, which were frequent in the beginning, she had stolen mine. I have so many old wards on my home that it had taken her the better part of the morning to dismantle them far enough for her to enter. When she asked me how I got in, I had pointed at a key. The next time it happened, she had had it. I should be angry she stole my keys, I am sure of it, but I don't miss them.

I hear the door close behind her, and she calls out to me. I grip the windowsill until my knuckles turn white.

She sighs, and mutters something about steps forward and steps back. I don't really register what exactly. She goes about her work like she always has, cleaning my kitchen, and getting me some food. I eat a little, drink a bit of water and continue to stare outside. I am locked inside my own head, and though I know she's here, I don't register her at all.

* * *

As I see the world outside darken, I am surprised to feel a hand on mine, trying to lead me away from my seat. She has never stayed after dark, she once told me that's when Potter needs her. She must lead a horrible life. As I think it a wave of guilt washes over me. It's my fault.

It's enough to jerk me temporarily into her world, and I look her in the eyes. Why are you here? Why don't you just live your life and leave me be? I am nothing to you, why do you bother? I want to ask her all those things, but I can't bring myself to open my mouth.

I let her lead me to my bedroom and sit me down on the edge of my bed. She disappears for a moment, but I don't have the energy to follow her movements. When she reappears in my line of sight, I see she's holding a clean pair of nightclothes. Without a word, she starts to undress me, replacing my filthy clothes with clean ones. I let her.

Sleep claims me while I'm lying in her arms, my head on her chest, listening to her calm heartbeat. I have no dreams, no nightmares as I feel her breath on my head and her arms around my shoulders. I wake once, only to find her still next to me, still holding me, and sound asleep. I lay my arm to rest on her stomach and doze off again. This must be the best night I have had in a long time, if not ever.

* * *

Morning comes quickly, and for the first time I can remember, I am well-rested. It's a speck of light in my inner darkness, but it's there. The sun shines through the gap in the curtains, illuminating my face. I might not feel it's warmth yet, but I do register it's presence. Will she stay with me? The entire day? I would really like to go see the sun. I realize with a start I don't even know whether it's summer or winter. I try to remember when I saw the world outside my window change, but I find I can't.

I hear her snore. How unbecoming. When I open my eyes I find her face only inches from mine, and my arm still lying gently across her stomach. I watch her face closely while I lie awake, not really wanting to move. Even my window seems less appealing today.

Then something happens. Her face contorts and her eyes move wildly behind her lids. Nightmares. I'd recognize them anywhere. I pull her close to me, wrapping my arms around her like a protective blanket. After weeks, maybe months, of not speaking, I find my voice. It's amazing I still have it.

"Granger, wake up!" I say it softly, but commanding, or at least as commanding as my broken voice can sound. Doesn't matter, it works.

Her eyes fly open, her breath ragged and her heart beating out of her chest. I know that face. It's the same face I used to see in the mirror every morning before I threw it out. She is no better off than I am. And yet, and yet she cares for me, while I am most days unable to move myself from my window. Why?

She starts crying, her head against my chest, and this time, for the first time,_ I_ care for _her_. _I_ am _her_ shoulder, and _I_ am the one who brings _her_ food to _her_. _I_ am the one who sits with _her_, while she moves herself through the mess in her head. In doing so, I realize why she cares for me and Potter. At the end of the day, I have reclaimed a small part of myself. It is miniscule, but I can feel it in my heart.

I hold her while she stares into the fire, though she never slips as far down as me. She reacts to everything I do, and I suspect she might be drawing it out a little to see how long I'll keep working for her. She never misses a day, and I assume this wasn't the first night with nightmares. So I know she can bring herself to get up and help me. But I don't mind, she gives me a purpose today.

The shadows are threatening to take over my room, and I worry she will leave me again. I hope she doesn't, but could I voice it? It takes me another hour to open my mouth.

"Will you stay?" I whisper.

Her large eyes meet mine, an expression of disbelieve on her face. Yes, I have spoken. I can you know. She must've convinced herself she had dreamed my comment from this morning.

"You want me to?" She asks. I only nod. There is no need for more words. She stares back into the fire.

"I have Harry, I can't leave him. Ginny took my shift yesterday. What about him?"

The concern for her friend fills her eyes, but I can see she wants to stay. It radiates from her. I shrug, it's her choice.

"I would have to check up on how last night went. May I?"

She waves a hand in the direction of my fire. I shrug again and release her from my hold. She kneels in front of the hearth and fire-calls the youngest Weasley. I can only hear her side of the conversation, and it's confusing. I imagine Weasley is doing most of the talking.

She pulls her head out of the green flames, and looks at me with a small smile gracing her lips.

"She says it's no problem, she'll stay with Harry. Apparently, she has been having a lot more success getting through to him than I had."

I try to read her face, it's caught somewhere between happiness and regret. Holding out her hand, she moves towards me. I take it and she pulls me up off the couch into a tight embrace.

"Thank you" She whispers into my chest. I shrug again. What did I do? I am seriously puzzled. She releases me and sits back down on the couch, pulling me back down with her. With a weak smile on her face, she starts talking. Talking about anything and everything which has happened since my exile. Since the final battle. She talks us well into the night, neither of us tired. For the first time, I listen to everything she says.

* * *

She makes me tea in the morning. I had woken up on the couch in cold sweat, her concerned eyes boring into mine. I felt calm when I saw her staring back at me, but by the look on her face, I wasn't the only one who had had nightmares in the few hours we had been asleep.

As she sits across from me, sipping her tea, she looks at me.

"Would you like to try the lab today?" She asks me.

I had been thinking the same thing. We need dreamless-sleep potions if she is going to stay over, and I could make some extra for her to take to Potter. Something pops into my head, and without giving myself the chance to think better of it, I voice my question.

"Do you have your own home?"

She looks surprised. I don't think she thought me capable of putting two and two together anymore. But I notice, I just don't care most of the time. She always sleeps at Potter's, and the one night she has off, she sleeps next to me.

"No, why?"

I shrug. She knows why, don't make me speak again. My throat burns around every word I form, and I really don't feel like enduring it anymore.

"Fine, whatever. Labs or no labs?"

She waves a hand dismissively, I must've gotten on her nerves for the first time since my exile.

I nod. Yes, let's try the labs today.

* * *

This night she does leave, taking a batch of dreamless sleep potions with her. She made me take one before she left, and left me slumbering on the couch. I refuse to go into my bedroom. I am dozing in the setting sun, while my bedroom has been emerged in shadows since noon.

When I wake, in the middle of the night, she has returned. I close my eyes again, and with a smile on my face, I fall asleep.

* * *

Weeks have gone by, and she has spent the night with me most of the nights. I wake up every morning, unable to rouse myself into action, but for entirely different reasons than before. I don't want to get up because I don't want to let her go. I am far from myself, though the darkness is retreating. I can hold a conversation without my throat hurting and both my imaginary injuries and my real ones have healed. Though I have a long way to go before I have some semblance of happiness back in my heart, she brings it forward. She shows me I still have it in me to be human. She gives me a purpose.

She opens her eyes to look at me, and smiles. That smile is what I live for. That smile is why I still drag my old arse out of bed every morning. Every day feels like the first, and every day I spend with her I do more things I haven't been able to do since the day I died. Every day is a day of firsts.

She leans forward and presses her lips against mine. And this day is no different.


End file.
